She was gone. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered. “You are so sweet, Lucy. Wood. One peculiarity she did not fail to notice. It was not your fault you failed. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods.
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